


Zero Conditional

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bus Stops, English grammar, I would..., If you..., M/M, Marmite, Rain, online ESL teaching, the fine art of weather forecasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24588391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: It wasn't supposed to rain today. On his way home from work in a deluge, Baz takes cover in a run-down bus shelter, cursing the weatherman and waiting for the worst of it to pass. It's a good opportunity for him to be alone and review grammar points for tomorrow's English lesson...but his colleague and unrequited work crush, Simon Snow, has other ideas.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 75
Kudos: 317





	Zero Conditional

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic about bad weather, unlocked lockers, car films and worthless bus timetables. There is to be some minor Marmite discourse, proceed accordingly. These wonderful people beta read this for me and all deserve a grateful mention: [Sourcherrymagiks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks), [The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff), [Caitybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug), [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow). Thank you _so_ much for helping me keep this fic dry from the rain...!

**BAZ**

It wasn't supposed to rain today.

I can't help but wonder if weather forecasters are forced to take a solemn oath upon enrolling in the Guild of False Predictions, or whatever they damn well call it _. Never again will you speak a true word._ _From this moment on, you will do no research and know not what honesty is. Spew drivel forth unto the people and confound all hopes of a sensible day―arm yourselves with umbrellas in twenty degree sunshine! Wear only a light jacket as the snow begins to fall!_

I don't have an umbrella. Why would I? The forecast promised glorious sunshine, and made no mention of downpours and casual daylight drownings. It would have been madness, _madness_ to waste precious bag space on an umbrella.

 _Well,_ I wonder, as my skin begins to shrivel. _Who’s laughing now?_

Bloody Darren the Weatherman on channel three, that’s who.

There's a bus shelter up ahead _―_ peeling paint and acrylic windows, pockmarked with cigarette burns and tired marker pen graffiti. I generally refuse to partake in the trite reality of buses, but this will be an exception _._ That's what the cheery sadism of Darren has driven me to _―public transport._

There’s a dim sense of consolation in finding the shelter empty. I left work late due to my colleague fancying an extra hour in bed _,_ and I am regretting everything about my cul-de-sac of a retail career.

What are others in my immediate peer group doing at seven o' clock on a Friday evening? I highly doubt they're shivering at bus stops, lamenting the corrupt art of weather forecasting. It's far more likely they're shovelling under-cooked pasta into their mouths, sitting cross-legged on rough carpets in university digs...long evenings of cheap alcohol and cheaper jokes stretching out ahead of them.

It sounds pleasant. _Appealing_ , almost.

...I think the weather's getting to me.

I don't go to university. I don't participate in the social spectacle of Friday Nights On the Town, and I certainly do _not_ eat stodgy pasta out of colanders, as I've heard is standard procedure. I live in a dingy flat above a corner shop with my aunt and a mutinous cat called Buttons. I go to work at the local branch of a high street film menagerie, lie about the things I like to appease customers, and walk home cursing grey skies. (And Darren.) (Damn you, Darren.)

Admittedly, today was particularly frustrating, and that _may_ be affecting my mood. After an embarrassing collision with _him_ in the cloak room, I spent the entire morning hiding in a cupboard. The afternoon was then lost somewhere between my unrequited's arrival at the tills and his refusal to rearrange the action films into alphabetical order. (He shelves in ascending numerical order, according to the number of explosions.)

 _Him._ Snow. My workplace antagonist, were I to anoint one. (Also: my obsession, my downfall, my painfully immutable crush.)

He was in fine form today _._ All flattened curls and golden skin, beaming at each customer as though _they_ were the one to make his day bright and easy.

It's never me who earns those smiles _―_ no, I bring the rain _._

And yet, this morning…he _was_ smiling. At me.

Snow caught me in the cloak room, sliding a sticky note into his open locker. (He broke the padlock within the first week of starting work, and seems duly unconcerned about the security of his belongings.) He stared at me, mouth open, and I bolted to the stock room. The rest of the day blurred into an uncomfortable mess, before I managed to sneak out unseen.

I've been leaving notes in his locker for months. Sketches, mostly, of what the day's weather is to be. Rain clouds, sunbeams, falling leaves...reminders, because he's hopeless at checking the forecast. (Today's note was wildly inaccurate. Thank you _so_ much, Darren.) I think a sad part of me wanted to be caught. Wanted him to know.

And now he does.

I slide onto a cold, cracked plastic bench and settle into my punitive wait. _I hate rain. I hate everything._ There are no cars _―_ only drumming water, and an incessant drip from the shelter's metal roof. I dip into my bag, resolving to at least pass this time wisely _―_ I've reading to do, grammar points to review before morning. After a day surrounded by the public and clueless colleagues, it's a relief to finally be alone.

Not one minute passes before I become aware of a rhythmic banging, as if a lost percussionist has sent up a distress call. Or _―_

Or as though somebody is knocking their foot against the shelter wall.

Well, that does it―smite me down and spare the trauma. My hopes for a quiet wait, gone down the drain.

 _Stay out there_ , I mentally project unto the stranger. _Do not walk in here and make things unbearable. You do not deserve to be dry. People who kick bus shelters must be damp and unhappy, at all times._

The person steps inside. I bite my lip and scowl at the tarmac. It does me no good _―_ there's a shuffling of feet in my peripheral vision, but no retreat. I'm overcome by the aroma of chips and grease.

That’s what gives it away _―_ the grease. I know who it is. I know who's here to interrupt me, to plague me, to _haunt_ me, as he always does.

_Simon Snow._

_If there's anyone out there, it's you._

**SIMON**

Pissing it down tonight. _B_ _ucketing_ down, really _―_ cats and dogs and all sorts. I never check the forecast, but the sky was clear, so I didn't pack an umbrella. I’m not sure I own one, to be honest _―_ my coat's got a hood, and normally that'd be enough...but it's bloody well _tipping_ it down. Like the clouds unanimously decided _fuck it, let's piss on everyone_. After five minutes I'm soaked through _._

Great. Brilliant. Fan-fucking-tastic.

There's a bus shelter up ahead, so I'll step inside and wait for it to knock off. Rain won't last forever _―_ not like this. Not even English rain can keep _this_ pace up, although it _is_ more twattish than other varieties. I’ll wait for a bit, then walk _..._ it's only water. It won't take half an hour _._ I'll avoid a Friday night run-in with pneumonia, and be home in time to watch the _Time Team_ repeat.

I'm kicking the metal post holding up the shelter. It'll be right annoying for anyone waiting inside, so I stop and step through the opening.

I get half a look at the bloke sat alone on the bench and almost straight walk back out again.

_It's him._

_Seriously, what are the odds?_

Baz Pitch is huddled up in his coat, reading a book. He's got his hair down, wet and straggly in his face, and a red pen in his left hand. I wish I could say he was happy to see me, but nah _―_ he glares and I'm thrown back to yesterday lunchtime, when he scowled at me until I closed the fridge door.

“Oh shit,” I say, walking in a circle. “Hi. Baz? Hello. Um, is it alright if I wait in here?”

I don't know why I'm asking for his permission. It's not like he's king of the bus stop.

But after this morning, he probably doesn't want to see me.

His eyes widen. “Public property, is it not? As with action films and their place in this world, you'll no doubt do as you please.” He tries to run his fingers through his hair, but gets caught in the knots. After I’d finished “correcting” the action DVDs (his words, not mine) I was going to talk to him, but he kept finding excuses to run away. Then when Gareth eventually dragged his lazy arse into work, I thought I'd catch him before he went home, but he left without saying goodbye.

I only wanted to talk.

To say thank you.

To say…

_I’m glad it was you? I knew you were only pretending to be a miserable git, this past year of working together?_

I could sit next to him. Right there, on the bench. It wouldn't be _that_ weird _―_ sometimes we sit together at lunch _._ He always takes the best table by the window, so I join him out of principle. (I eat the same thing every day. Cheese and tomato sandwich, no mayo, brown bread with the crusts cut off. Baz hates it.) (The _no crusts_ situation started as a way to fuck with him, because he pulled a face the first time I did it. Now it’s A Thing and I don't know how to stop.)

We could sit together and he'd pretend I don't exist.

I'd be quiet and think about what it might be like, if we could be nice to each other.

I'd think about the note he left in my locker today, and all the others he's left since the start of the year. Little things about the weather. Smiley faces and doodles.

I couldn't believe it when I saw him there this morning. The way his eyes went wide, the shake of his lip. I think part of me wanted it to be Baz, being nice and wanting nothing back, but...he _hates_ me. That's what I thought. It was more likely one of the temps, or Gareth winding me up.

I've fancied Baz since the first day. (Only I didn’t know it then―I thought I was jealous.) Ever since he strolled into the staff room, called me an eyesore and ordered me about. I can't say _why_ I liked him _―_ he was a right knobhead, that whole first week _―_ but I did. And the feelings got worse, instead of going away.

It's your everyday, typical Baz-and-Simon-at-work stuff: confusing, complicated, combative.

But he's looking at me right now _―_ here, in this bus shelter _―_ with something besides the usual loathing. His lips press together into a line, then he nods and goes back to his book.

Does this mean I _can_ sit down? Or should I stand around wishing I was invisible, instead?

Another glance outside. It doesn't look like the downpour's going to ease off any time soon. I lean against the glass(?) wall and pretend to be interested in the timetable, damp paper curling behind a scratched sheet of plastic.

“Is it alright? That I'm here. Do you mind...?”

Anyone else, I'd be able to think of something to say. A one-liner, a joke _―_ get them laughing. But with Baz, it's constant question marks and second guessing _._ (I don't think I've ever seen him laugh at anything that wasn't injury-related.) It's hard at work, when I try to be nice or ask for help at the tills, and he goes all Uppity Wanker.

I asked Penny to move me to morning shifts, but she said no. She reckons Baz and I will never work through the tension if we avoid each other.

She knows I fancy him.

I didn't tell her. Not exactly. She guessed one morning before work, when he came in with his hair down and sunglasses on, lollipop hanging out of his mouth. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

(Is the rain part of her plot to make us get along?)

(Is Penny a secret weather forecaster?)

If we could find some sort of middle ground, where he doesn't look at me like that and I don't feel like this, I'd be alright with it. It'd be a start. 

**BAZ**

It is impossible to summon any lasting hatred for Darren the Weatherman when faced with my least favourite colleague, who is also _―_ purely because I hate myself and maintain, at all times, negative reserves of self-respect _―_ my _favourite_ colleague.

Bunce is aware of my mortifying crush. She caught me spying on Snow from the sanctuary of the stock room one day, watching the muscles in his back strain as he lifted a tote of DVDs. Oh, how I _yearned_ to be one of those anonymous plastic cases, tossed around senselessly on the shores of his _―_

She grilled me until I was a fumbling mess of confession. _It’s Snow. He’s tragic. And I so badly want to be tragic, too. Say a word and I’ll smother you with your own demonic grin._

I'm convinced it's the reason she won't move me off afternoon shifts, despite the monthly requests submitted with my timesheets. Bunce is the only one of us with any supervisory power, and she abuses it like it's her purpose in life.

I think Snow wants to share the bench, but I don't exist to give him permission. (Also, I can never say the right thing. I can only make the tension between us tangible, like thick crust forming over a bowl of tepid custard.) I ignore his curious bleats _―_ let him sit or stand until the blood pools in one extremity or the other, it makes no difference.

It's not as though he'd listen to any reasonable sort of response. I know Simon Snow off by heart _―_ what a menace he is, with his childish lunches and untied trainers. I know how he stacks shelves one item at a time, taking three hours to arrange a simple display of new releases. I know the sort of drivel he recommends on a daily basis _―_ he’d rather die than hear me bad mouth one of those interminable car racing sequels.

I also know how softhearted he is. How he lives alone, a man of humble means _―_ my ridiculous desire to leave him notes began the day he purchased a DVD for himself with his staff discount. _Bend It Like Beckham_. I made fun of him as his debit card was declined. He scraped eight pounds in change from his fathomless pockets and said it was his Christmas present to himself. _Don't have the internet at home, y'see. Found an old DVD player for a tenner at a car boot sale._

I loathed everything about that transaction. My mocking laughter, his stumbling words. Why was no one looking after him? Keeping him together, ensuring he was up to date on technology. A man of Snow's shaky competence should _not_ be left to buy his own Christmas presents.

I would listen to him, after that. Slyly. Unobtrusively. I would listen to the nonsense he spouted and google it on my phone during quiet moments. And then, when he wasn't looking, I'd scribble something on a sticky note. They were the typical banal platitudes people obsessed with their colleague compose _―Have a good day. Remember your scarf. Don't slip on fallen leaves._ Little things, to show that I cared without having to admit to it. Me, looking after him and his hopelessness.

I slam my textbook shut as he shuffles past me, wedging himself between the wall and my hip, so I've no choice but to slide closer to the edge. I suspect I'm making room for the inevitable display of man-spreading he's set to unleash on our damp, miserable corner of the world. I'd hoped to review grammar for my morning English lesson, but it's impossible to focus on anything as structured and satisfying as conditionals when the creature next to me is scuffing his feet against the floor, puffing discontent with every laboured breath.

Simon Snow _is_ bad grammar. Simon Snow is neglected full stops, misplaced commas and upside down question marks. He's the angry red lines of life's overburdened spellcheck feature, crammed into one short, ill-mannered vessel.

But...

He's also the drafted document. The sense, shining through the scrawl.

_God, I’m a wreck._

“Are you ill?” I ask, high and breathy _―_ Snow swallows, blinking rapidly as he attempts to decipher my whistle register.

“Um...no? Felt a bit off this morning, but I was hungry. Are you? Ill, I mean. If you're hungry, I've got a yoghurt in my bag.”

I scowl, twisting my wrist so it clicks. “Are you sure you're of sound mind and body? I advise you not to cough or sneeze on me. I am _not_ beneath a good bus stop throttling.”

_Why, why am I like this?_

He's being perfectly reasonable and I'm being perfectly dreadful. It’s the epitome of playground games _―_ pulling his hair, calling him names to hide how much I like him.

I'm harbouring an ugly, festering emotional investment in this man, and my body's panicked response is to go on the attack. _Don't love him, lacerate him!_

I watch his loose shoelaces drag tracks of rain in slow circles. (Why can't he bloody well tie them, like a decent person?)

This is where I ought to make amends _―_ offer a droll remark about the weather, the bus timetable, this mess of a day we're caught in. _What's your rainy day film, Snow? Don't tell me―one with cars and explosions_.

Or maybe he'd choose that football film. The one he bought for himself _―_ the one I then purchased with my corporate gift card and watched ten times until I practically knew it off by heart, on the off chance he ever brought it up in the staff room. (He didn't.)

I stare holes through the wall, saying nothing. That’s the usual way of things when we work together. Long hours of quiet tension until he asks a question, and I bite his head off. Then he complains to Bunce until she admonishes me, and we're snippy with each other for the remainder of the day.

I go home and hate myself. Think about him. Think about the lost opportunities to be pleasant, to make in-roads.

If I weren't such a coward, I'd be good to him.

And I'd tell him it’s me. It’s always been me.

 _I'm_ the weatherman.

**SIMON**

I don't know what to say to Baz. Should I start with an apology?

 _Sorry you have to watch me cut the crusts off my sandwiches every day. Sorry I smell like chips_ ― _I bought a cone from the chippy outside work, and dropped half of them down me._ _Sorry I drink cola through a straw, because in your opinion that's a crime and I should be caned for it. (It hurts my teeth.) Sorry I ignore the divine laws of alphabetical order and shelve all the car films together, because it’s easier for me to find the sequels when recommending them to a customer. Sorry those films exist and I'm sorry I like them unironically. I'm sorry I never know which actors are cool enough to put in the displays. I’m sorry I caught you by the lockers this morning. And I'm sorry I walked in here and stopped you from reading your book._

He shifts, running his fingers over the cover. I crane my neck to read the title: _English Grammar for the Despairing Teacher_.

Baz is a teacher? Or does his grammar need some work? That can't be it. He's always perfect _―_ when I write recommendation cards, he goes through and corrects them with a sharpened pencil. I can’t see how he’d have time for a second job _―_ we're both full-time at the shop, and most days we end up staying late. It takes over your life.

I suppose it's none of my business. He's not getting much reading done _―_ just staring at the cover like he hopes to find new information there. Am I putting him off?

He watches the rain. It’s relentless. He can't blame me, not this time _―_ he _has_ to blame the forecast.

“Christ on a bike,” he says under his breath, cracking his jaw. “Will this ever end?”

I jump on it, because shitting on the forecast is better than sitting in silence. “It's bullshit, yeah? Going to miss _Time Team_ at this rate. Could've given us some warning.”

 _“Time Team?_ Of all the things I expected you to say.” He laughs and I feel my insides twist _. That's a good sign. That's a start._

“What did you expect me to say?”

He doesn't reply.

I swing my legs until they touch the plastic(?) wall of the shelter, then back along the ground. He growls at me until I stop.

“It's a game to them,” he says cryptically. “Just when you're beginning to trust in their methods...it's a meteorological conspiracy. I imagine they meet at a round table and devise nefarious plots to drown us all, on a weekly basis.”

Is he talking about Warren? Hang on...maybe it was Daryl. Daniel? The weather bloke on channel three. Penny talks about him _―_ apparently he's pretty fit. (Not that I bother tuning in. Don't need to, when I get notes in my locker from my mystery person.) (...from _Baz._ )

We lapse into silence and I steal another look. He wears the same shoes every day _―_ brown leather with leather laces _―_ and combined with that soft-looking coat, I'd say he's definitely _not_ dressed for the weather. It looks like it'd melt right off him, ten paces down the road.

There's no sign of headlights, no rumble of a double-decker's engine as it struggles up the street. We're stranded, under-dressed and unimpressed.

I wonder how long Baz has been waiting. He finishes work an hour before me, but he had to stay late because of Gareth. Maybe he's in a bad mood and he's been out here since then, freezing his tits off. (It'd explain the look on his face. Like he's licked a lamppost, or something else nasty and public.)

I've got my mouth open to try again when he beats me to it.

“If you don't stop swinging your feet, Snow, I'm going to rip them off with my teeth.”

**BAZ**

I close my eyes.

_Why? Why did I say that? Cannibalistic threats are rarely the solution._

I should be taking my anger out on Gareth. He's the one incapable of rising at a sensible hour. (Did Bunce, the irrepressible mastermind, arrange our sodden rendezvous?)

“Sorry,” Snow says, and his filthy trainers fall still. “Just boring, isn't it? Waiting. I hate waiting. When's the bus supposed to be here?”

He's rambling. I do him a mercy and check my watch _―_ the 61 is at least ten minutes late, and I tell him so, taking the opportunity to assess him again. Judge my tormentor for all he is.

Of course he's a foot-swinger. It makes sense. He's also a coin-tapper _―_ every lunch time, tap-tap-tapping his money on the table whilst I stare aghast at his discarded sandwich crusts. (He goes back and gnaws them down to nothing afterwards, like Bugs Bunny with a carrot.)

What else do I know about Snow and his perplexing habits? He's a chronic lip-shredder _―_ I observe from close proximity how ragged and sore they are. At work, he pulls his lower lip into his mouth as he shelves romances _―_ wrong, always wrong _―_ seemingly determined to eat the scattering of moles clean off his own face.

I'm certain he's a pen-chewer. And a skin-picker. I try to examine his cuticles, but he's watching me with his beady little eyes.

_A mindless hummer. That's what you are. You've got hummer-of-maudlin-tunes written all over you._

_You watch daytime television and like it._

_You quote football films and see value in CGI explosions._

_You like Time Team and it's the most banal, beautiful thing I've ever heard._

In the back of my mind is the possibility of the bus never arriving. Of it grinding to a halt halfway up the hill, leaving Snow and I to sail home in a paper boat folded from sodden textbook pages.

I don't think I'd mind.

After a solid twenty seconds of awkward silence, he leans in to tap the cover of my book.

“What're you reading about grammar for? Plan on being even pickier with my rec cards?”

If he gets his grubby, chip-addled fingerprints on my book, I might snap. My family would doubtless be charmed by the headlines _―my son went to work, killed his handsome colleague, and all we got was this irretrievable stain on the family name._

“I teach English online, before work.”

Another empty second. “But you work in the shop. With me.”

“Yes,” I hiss. “I have two jobs _―_ a novel concept, I know. Oddly enough, minimum wage that doesn't rise with the rate of inflation, scraped from eight-hour shifts in a dying high street shop, _doesn't_ pay the bills. Surely you know that.”

He jerks back, banging the shelter with his clumsy elbows. He doesn't often talk about his studio flat above a launderette _―_ I looked it up on Google Maps; it's one rung above a rathole _―_ but I know he itches to be free of it. His jaw clicks as he fails to find an adequate response. It's for the best that there's no one else out there _―_ one look at the shaking walls, and they'd think an impatient cow was barging about, trying to catch the 61 into town.

“Wages are shit, yeah _―_ I get that _―_ but still. You need time off. Are you a student?”

I take my time in studying him and his clacking jaw. I watch carefully, intensely interested in learning if his brains are leaking directly from his ears, or some other unseen orifice.

“I _have_ students. ESL students. My hourly rate is more than double what we get at the shop _―_ I've been teaching online for months. Four o'clock until six.”

“What? More than _double?_ And _―_ ESL? Is that a language?”

"Bloody hell, Snow, how could it be simpler? I'm an English teacher. I teach _English._ As a second language. It's very straight forward.”

I'm highly aware that there’s only us in here, apart from the world. I'm stranded in a downtrodden bus shelter with a man who wears band t-shirts and who must, by this point, consist primarily of starchy carbohydrates and a few sorry slices of limp tomato.

“What's it like, teaching online? D'you use a webcam?”

“Yes. And a headset microphone.” I hesitate, remembering yesterday's conversation with my student in Italy. “Apparently I look like a 90s popstar.”

He grins. “Alright then, Britney. Do you teach kids or adults? I'd be so crap at it. Don't have the patience. Plus, my laptop’s a relic.”

“I teach adults.” I actually think Snow would be good at working with kids _―_ he's the resident entertainer when they stampede into the shop, looking for _Scooby-Doo_ remakes and bland animated films. “Most of them are business people taking in-company lessons. It's terribly conversational.” (And I am _terrible_ at it.)

“Doesn't sound too bad, getting paid to chat. What do you talk about?”

I raise an eyebrow, but he misses it. “It's more than idle chatter _―_ there's a point to it. Context, structure...we review grammar points they feel insecure about, I correct them, and hopefully they improve. Gain a bit of confidence.”

“What kind of grammar do you do?”

“English grammar.”

“Yeah, but...what kind?”

I dare him to smirk, but he doesn't. He can't _seriously_ be interested _―_ I've spent enough time with his film recommendation cards to know he's never looked a semicolon in the eye. (Semi- _Colin_ , he said once, when pressed about it. _Piss off, Baz―there's no such thing as a semi-Colin._ ) I open my textbook. The situation's affecting me _―_ the knowledge that we're completely alone and he's showing an interest.

“Tomorrow's student wants to review conditionals,” I explain, watching his mouth form a perfect O as he braves the wall of text. _“Ifs_ , Snow. A world of _ifs_ and _I woulds_.”

“Ifs?” he grunts, following the words with a stubby finger. _“If_ what? _I would_ what?”

 _If only_ , I think, staring at his mouth. _If ever. I would, I would, I would._

**SIMON**

I could not be less interested in grammar. What the fuck is a conditional? I thought it was what you put in your hair after shampoo, but apparently not. Apparently it's something Despairing English Teachers use to torture you. ( _Is_ Baz despairing?) (I hope not.)

Still, he's _talking_ to me. He's not thinking about what he'd rather be doing on a dark, rainy night. He's holding his book out and I'm pulling it until it's half in my lap, half in his _―_ bleeding _heavy―_ and he's drawing invisible circles around things with his pen lid.

He's passionate about this. About grammar.

I wonder what it's like, being this into something. I get through the days but I don't actually _do_ much with them. Not the way I should. It's like every day is a placeholder for the next, and I'm stumbling forwards, waiting for what's supposed to arrive.

Baz is one of my main interests, to be honest. How sad is that?

I imagine myself caring about this. Giving a shit about exclamation marks and syntax. (Whatever _that_ is. Sounds like a disease.)

“If it rains tomorrow, I'll bring an umbrella.”

“What?"

I mean, it's not a _bad_ idea. He smirks at me, tapping his pen against the page.

“I'm not about to give you a free lesson, Snow. Read, and all will become clear.”

Not fucking likely. I was never any good at the book stuff. I stare at the words: _Actions in the future or past that may or may not happen if a certain condition is met and you don't lose your mind in the insidious humdrum that is English grammar and its death march to nowhere punctuated by the impact of a teacher's ruler against the back of your head because you've fallen asleep at your desk again because this is so fucking boring you would rather eat your own toenails than pay attention for one more second._

When I look up, he's frowning. It's hard to keep thoughts off my face _―_ he probably sees right through me to the scared, spotty school kid within. He definitely looks like a teacher _―_ his eyebrows are pulled down, teeth practically pushing through his lip.

“It's not clear. Sorry.”

He breathes in sharply, then pushes it out through his nose. Is that how he laughs? (It's…cute?) “Obviously not.” He digs around in his bag, shuffling papers and pens.

“I never learnt all that in school. The conditional stuff.”

“For the most part, you'd have picked it up naturally as you learnt to speak and read. You’d have done so incorrectly, of course _―_ native English speakers are notoriously lazy, but we get by.”

I nudge him. He nudges me back.

I like this. Learning things about Baz.

_Does he like this, too?_

“Must be hard to teach over a screen.”

“My student knows it already, but she's afraid of making mistakes. I tell her that it's better to be understood than perfect, and that _I_ make mistakes constantly, but...”

Afraid of mistakes. I know the feeling.

“I bet you're a good teacher. You're dead good at training the temps at work. And you always notice when I've done something wrong, and put it right before Penny realises.”

For a second I think he's not going to say anything. Just sit and stare until the sky runs out of rain. But then he tips his head towards mine and says beneath the patter, “Thank you. And I hope you know I don't do it merely to be a pain―the less Bunce is on our backs, the better.”

And I know of all the mistakes I've made, stepping in here wasn't one.

There's a rumble overhead that sounds like thunder. Baz's eyes find mine _―_ is he nervous? There's _something_ there. Something beyond the intense desire to correct me and talk shit about my taste in films. I pull the textbook further into my lap and drag my finger down the page.

 _“If I drink coffee in the afternoon, I won't be able to sleep._ Likely outcome. First conditional.” I frown. “First of how many? There's more than one?”

Lightning flashes and he flinches. (Would it be grammatically incorrect to put my arm around him?)

“F-four,” he stammers. _“If I oversleep, I'll be late for work_. Likely outcome. Story of Gareth's life.”

“Right. Four conditionals,” I reply, flipping a few pages ahead. “That seems unnecessary. Why's English so complicated?”

A flash, a rumble. He shifts along the bench.

_If he's scared of storms, I'll take his mind off it._

“To make your life miserable, Snow. Now, the second conditional _―if I were a weatherman, I would die of shame._ ”

**BAZ**

I’m drunk on Snow’s proximity, frightened by the thunder, and being _far_ too obvious with my pitiful attempts at flirting.

“Like you said, they're probably getting it wrong on purpose to create situations like this.”

_Situations like this._

_Stuck in here with you._

If anything, I should be _thanking_ Darren.

I offer to show Snow a grammar game I've planned for tomorrow, and he sits patiently as I fold slips of paper, jumbling them between us. I've watched him messing with his phone in the staff room countless times _―_ I know he enjoys trivia _._ He frequently shouts answers as he types them _,_ veering into anagrams, endless bouts of Junior Scrabble...the game should be sufficient to entertain him. To keep him here, with me.

I encourage him to choose a slip of paper, to which he responds, “What the fuck are we doing?”

“ _Language._ Behave, Snow.”

“Oi. _You_ behave. How's this learning?”

“Come, now _―_ play along. It's a way to practice without the pressure of writing it down and having a meltdown over the particulars. We'll have a conversation _―_ can you manage that?” I give him my best teacher look, feeling a surge of pleasure as he wilts. “I'll go first.” I choose a slip and unfold it, holding it up for him to see. “ _If I won a million pounds..._ ”

He blinks at me.

“Well? Use _I would_. And don't be unrealistic _―_ a million pounds doesn't stretch as far as you'd think. No flats in Mayfair, for example.”

He sticks his tongue out like a petulant child. (Or a Labrador.) “Mayfair? Sod that. I could get a pretty nice car for a million, yeah? I'd do that. Then be too scared to drive it. Sorry _―_ I mean, _I would be too scared to drive it.”_

I think if I won a million pounds, I'd invest in some serious photography equipment, so I might capture Simon's expression at this moment, in as high a definition as possible. If we weren't sitting at the bus stop in the rain playing grammar games, I'd say he was enjoying himself.

I'd say we were getting along.

“Alright. Your turn.”

He does as he’s told and snatches at a slip, a thousand unwritten _ifs_ spiralling through my mind.

_“If I could have any animal as a pet...”_

I close my eyes. That helps, sometimes. I spend so much time performing repetitive tasks with a cash till that I rarely think creatively. “What do you say? Anything you like.”

These questions work well when you don't overthink them. Snow looks as though he's attempting to run a marathon with his face _―_ I nudge him, guiding him to the first thing that comes to mind.

“Dragon.”

I give him _The Look_ , the one I wear at work when he jams the register with his infernal button-bashing. The one he gets when he knocks a shelving unit over, and I'm left to pick up the literal pieces.

“A dragon is _not_ an animal. Be reasonable.”

“How is it not an animal? It's got four paws and a tail.”

“ _Paws_? What sort of dragons have you been associating with?”

“Well, you can't call them feet. They've got claws.”

“Snow, dragons are not _real_. I'm afraid you'll have to choose _―_ ”

“Hang about. You didn't say no _mythical_ animals, and look, if I _could_ have _any_ animal, I'd have a dragon. My grammar's fucking flawless, mate.”

I grit my teeth and suffer the defeat. He asks what animal I'd have, and I wipe the smile off his face with my response.

“None.”

“None. None what?”

“I would not have a pet.”

“...you being serious? Why not? You could have anything! Something low maintenance. A penguin. A snake? A unicorn.”

“All animals require maintenance. I would presumably have to take a unicorn for walks, and so forth. It's a no.”

“Well, that's just...what about something small, like a rabbit? Don't have to walk those. They're quiet. Vegetarian.”

“Rabbits chew things. Wires, wallpaper...it would swiftly become expensive.”

“A cat, then? You can just let them out, and _―_ ”

“It brings me corpses as presents? I'd rather not. My aunt has a cat _―_ she's a tiny murderer with voids where her eyes should be.”

“Can I see?” He brightens instantly. I'm pulling out my phone, completely lost on his smile. His greasy chip-fingers prod gracelessly at the screen. “Wicked. What's his name?”

“ _Her_ name. Buttons. She’s a terror.”

“Buttons?” He rubs at the back of his neck, almost dropping my phone. “That's well cute.”

There’s nothing to say to that, so I sneer until he blushes. My device is returned to my lap intact.

“Dead cute,” he says again.

_Cute._

I realise he's talking about Buttons the Barbarous. But for a moment, can't I revel in my own self-pity, and pretend he might be referring to me?

“Here, look, answer this _,_ ” he demands, digging out another slip. “ _If I could go anywhere in the world?_ ”

“I would go to Monte Carlo,” I say immediately, “Yachts, tennis, and overpriced everything.”

I watch him mentally draw a map of mainland Europe and settle for somewhere near France. “Wicked. Yeah, that'd be right cool. I’d go to the Isle of Wight.”

“The _Isle of Wight?_ ” I shout. “What an _appalling_ thing to say.”

“Well, why not? The sea's there, yeah? Sea's the same everywhere you go. It's not that far away so as to be inconvenient. And they have a music festival.” He's getting defensive, hands scrunched up into fists. “France isn't exactly exotic! You can get there on a _train_. Penny went to the Isle of Wight last year and said it was lovely.”

"Monte Carlo isn't in _―_ " I surrender before he gets all puffed up and sweaty _―_ the usual recourse when he’s losing an argument. “Very well, Snow. Isle of Wight it is.”

He licks his lips. “It’s just…I'm alright where I am, really. I like going to work, I like...who I work with. Is that bad? Not wanting to go far?”

Before I can think too hard, I say, “No. It's not bad.”

I focus on the mole beneath his eye and try not to think about how much I'd like to kiss it. Him.

To kiss Snow, there.

“Being here,” he says. “It’s good.”

My phone lights up in my lap. I look down to see my aunt's name, followed by two words: _DROWNING YET?_

I type a response without taking my eyes off Snow. (Because I'm dramatic like that.)

_In every imaginable way._

**SIMON**

We're not getting much correction done. We're mostly having a laugh and poking holes in each other's opinions. Still, if he's happy and not thinking too hard, it's a success _―_ grammar be damned.

He's doodling on discarded slips _..._ flowers and stars, weird little animals with fangs. He sees me admiring what might be a bat and pushes it into his bag. (He's got this old, weather-beaten satchel he brings to work.) (Who even has a satchel these days? Is he a time traveller?)

We answer _that_ particular question next. _If you could go back in time..._

Baz says he'd travel back to this morning and assassinate the weatherman. (Darren.) (Baz pulls a face when I call him _the fit one_.) He'd right whatever wrong made the buses run so late _―_ we've been here for over half an hour now, and not one has gone by. You just know that when one _does_ show up, there'll be another two behind it _―_ it's a fact of life. Some bloke called Sod and his stupid law.

I don't say so, but _I_ wouldn't go back and change the buses. I might fuck them up even more, to be honest _―_ make it so we can play this game for a bit longer. (For hours.) (All night.)

I think he knows.

To be fair, the bus is _definitely_ taking the piss. Has there been some cataclysmic global event, and we're the only ones who don't know about it?

_If we were the only two people in the world...I'd go back to this morning and walk into the cloak room two minutes earlier than I did._

_I'd say Baz, don't you just hate those pissing weather people? By the way, it's going to belt it down today. They fooled you good and proper. Cheers for the note, though. I’m going to put it in the box under my bed with all the others._

“Simon,” he says, unfolding the last bit of paper. “If there was an apocalyptic scourge affecting the world's tomato crop, what would you have on your daily mundanity sandwich?”

Thinks he's fucking funny, this one. There's nothing mundane about _my_ sandwiches.

I pause for maximum effect, look him square in the eye and say, “Baz, if there were no tomatoes, I would slop half a jar of Marmite between two slabs of cheese, and call it a day.”

**BAZ**

_Marmite._

Of _course_ he's a Marmite person. Everything about him is a whirlwind of virulence _―_ he's absolutely the sort to enjoy tarmac spread on his toast. He's their bloody target audience. The dream customer. I picture him at home, awash in a sea of Marmite _―_ bathroom cabinets stacked with jars. Kitchen cupboards overflowing with those confounded squeezy bottles that lead to nothing but wrist ache and misery.

My father is a Level 10 Marmite fiend _―_ for Christmas, I bought him a pair of socks with the logo emblazoned across the heels. He loads up the snack drawer with abominable rice cakes, and I suspect Marmite Malcolm would brush his teeth with the cursed stuff, if he could.

Simon's the same. Animals, the pair of them.

“Bloody love Marmite,” he says again, agonising over the _t_.

I asked about sandwiches because I was afraid of the way he was looking at me. And now he wants a fight, itching to ignite a sandwich war.

I _cannot_ let this stand.

“It is _foul._ ”

“It's beautiful.”

“It is what they cover roads with.”

He dips into his grotty rucksack and pulls out a sticky plastic container, inside which lies the depths of humanity's daring. I draw back as a droplet oozes from an accusing finger.

“You've never given it a chance. Go on, Baz _―_ give it a lick.”

“No _._ I would rather die.”

“Lovely grammar, but you don't know what you're missing. I slopped a bit on my chips earlier―A-plus plus condiment.”

“ _Don't._ What breed of abomination are you, brazenly carrying that blight through the streets? You ought to be locked up!”

“Want to know a secret? At lunch time, after you've heated up your noodles and turned away to howl at the wall, or whatever it is you do, I scrape a bit on my sandwich. All over the cheese. Let it sink in and turn the bread soggy.”

It's revolting. I long to throw up in my shoe, but the bastard's got me in his grip, and it isn't beneath me to swoon.

It's confirmed: Simon Snow is the worst thing alive.

“I sit there, in all innocence and good faith, whilst you _smear your bread with salty tar._ And then you have the sheer gall to devour it in my presence.” I watch with horror as he licks the drip from his finger, then replaces the lid. “I will never trust again.”

He's getting cocky now, pushing the plastic container back into his bag. “It's my lunch break, I can do what I like. Tell you what―if you try it, I'll stop bringing it to work. I'll leave it in my unlocked locker.”

He smirks and I think about kissing his disgusting, Marmite-smeared face. (Because I'm a chronic disappointment, on a cosmic level.)

_I'll leave it in my unlocked locker._

I've been far too careless with my conditionals.

_He knows about the notes. All of them._

_He knows that I..._

If I had a shred of self-respect, I would get up and walk out of the bus shelter. I would let the rain sweep me along the street, whirling down the drain to subsist in the sewers, where I no doubt belong.

But I don't get up. I don't walk out.

I watch the darkening clouds and try to decide if the rain is better or worse than before.

**SIMON**

We're fresh out of ifs and question marks.

There's nothing between us on this bench, now _―_ no space, no secrets we can't see through. It's nice. It's not at all where I thought this day was going.

If I could go back in time, I'd change a lot of things. I'd change most of what happened this morning.

But I don't think I'd touch the weather.

A car goes past and headlights catch in his eyes. I dare myself to ask him, before the light's gone and my bravery fades with it.

_I know it was you. Why didn't you want me to know?_

_You were trying to keep me dry. You were trying to stop me from getting sunburnt._

_You care._

Instead, when he raises his eyebrows at me I say, “Go on, then. Tell me about the other conditionals. Third and fourth?”

He smiles softly. “It isn't called the fourth conditional.”

“Why not? Wait, I know why _―_ because that'd make too much sense.” Just when you think you know what you're saying, grammar throws another spanner in the works to trip you up. “What's it called? Do they skip four and go straight to the fifth?”

“No. It's zero.”

“Zero?”

“When there are zero conditions in which it's not true. A zero conditional.”

“Fucking stupid,” I mutter, wondering which pointless bit of grammar I need to employ to stop the bus from taking him away. _You can't go until I've found a clever way of letting you know I know about the notes and also, how much I love that it's you. That it's always been you, looking after me. Also, I've never seen him, but I bet Darren’s not as fit as you._

Us, stuck in this bus stop until the sun burns out. Until we're alright and past what we were before, and _..._

And any conditions are met. All of them.

“You'll like zero conditionals,” he's saying, messing with his buttons. (That coat can't be keeping him warm. If I offered him mine, would he wear it?) “They're concerned with facts. Or rather, situations that are always true.”

_Always true._

He messes with his hair and shivers. Where the fuck is this bus? At least he'd be warmer on there. Is this some sort of parody bus shelter put here for a laugh? Is the bus company in league with the weather forecasters, filming us for their own sick amusement?

“Let's see. Ah, here we are _―if you light a match, it burns._ ”

**BAZ**

“I get it. Always true,” Snow echoes. “If it rains the ground gets wet. Yeah?”

“Yes,” I say. My mouth's dry. I wouldn't pass up one of his lunchtime colas, sipped through a straw. “Or...if the weatherman says it's sunny, it rains.”

He smiles. _Always true._

“I like facts. You know where you stand with them. You don't have to...to guess.”

I watch him swing his legs back and forth, catch himself, stop. I've got one eyebrow at attention again, but he doesn't see. The unspoken rolls between us.

“Baz...” he begins, looking down at the floor between us. “If you make good money teaching, why don't you do it full-time? Leave the shop. Save yourself the bother.”

It doesn't sound like something he wants to say. It's perfunctory―words he's led by, because he feels he ought to acknowledge them.

I'm not going to say perfunctory things.

“My aunt would be furious if I never left the flat. Buttons would declare herself empress, ordering me about the place. And, well.” A breath, a leap. “I like who I work with.” I end pathetically, like a candle as it putters out a final time. “I don't _want_ to leave.”

I can feel heat radiating off him. He always runs hot at work―he wears his awful band t-shirts around the shop, sleeves rolled up to his shoulders. It's a distraction when you're trying to read a barcode.

“I don't want you to leave. You should stay.”

“Stay,” I mutter, watching his mouth. “Who said I was going?”

“I'm not...I mean, _here_. The bus stop. We can stay here?”

It's like there's a pull, something within me that's making me move. I'm sliding a leg across the bench, and the rest of me follows. He's got one shoulder awkwardly propped against the window, his left arm rising, hand sliding over my shoulder, and―

_If I lean in like this, will you kiss me?_

_If you don't, I might._

"Baz," he whispers, digging a hand into a pocket. He pulls out a crumpled square of paper and presses it into my hand. "I kept it. I keep all of them."

It's the note I left in his locker this morning. A scribbled sun, wearing sunglasses and flashing an arrogant grin. _TRY NOT TO BURN_ , it says.

"The forecast," I say listlessly. "How could they get it so wrong?"

Then he's crushing the note into my palm, our fingers sliding together, his other hand in my hair, and―

A noise grows rampant, breaking the reverie. It's a growl, a rumble in the dark, and our heads whip to the right as lights appear over the hill, bright and imposing.

The bus. How late are we now, an hour? Two?

“Looks like you're free of me,” Snow says, pointing out the obvious. His hand drops into his lap, and the magic fritters away. I move back. “The bus is here.”

There's a pause in which I hope he'll pull me to him and demand I wait for the next one _―_ which on this timetable, would likely see us stuck here until morning _―_ but he doesn't, and neither do I, and then the moment's gone completely.

I swallow my disappointment and stand, shaking the day's debris from my clothes. Simon stands too, jabbering on about nothing, trying to come up with something vaguely scientific-sounding that disproves the zero conditional. He can't do it _―_ that's the trouble with facts, I tell him. They're always true, even if you don't believe them.

Neither of us put a hand out to signal the driver, but the indicator blinks and the bus pulls into the lay-by. Rain water splashes up over the kerb, almost submerging Simon's trainers, and I pull him away.

“Well, then.” He steps back to let me pass, so I do. “Have a safe journey home, yeah? See you tomorrow. We've got to move the horror section and make room for the new football display. Season's starting up soon.”

“There can't be _that_ many films about football. We won't fill half a bay.”

“I don't know,” he replies, licking his lips. “ _Bend it Like Beckham_ 's good, yeah? Modern classic. We've got about ten copies _―_ that can fill up a shelf. _”_

He's looking at me hopefully, and I can't, I _can't_ hold it in anymore.

I haven't been careful at all, have I? If I wanted to make it any more obvious, I'd be wearing David Beckham's face on a bloody sleeveless t-shirt.

“Good idea. In fact, _if we go now, we can―”_

“Oi, you two! Pair of nutters, twatting about in this. You getting on or what? Service is late, and it's fackin' pissing it down!”

We almost bang noses in our haste to glare at the impatient bus driver, who sits like a king on his throne of frayed fabric and discarded tickets, beckoning us on board. I hold up two fingers of my own and savour his reaction.

“I imagine his poor passengers can wait a moment more, after the journey they've had.” Snow hasn't moved, despite the long-suffering whine of the engine as the driver attempts to rev it. “Our chariot awaits. Are you coming?”

_We've waited all this time._

_You can squeeze in next to me and drip all over my shoes. I won't mind._

“Nah,” he says sheepishly. “No money. You better get going―I think Drive's going to leave without you.”

I reach into my pocket for my wallet, fumbling with the clasp. “I'll pay,” I say desperately. Behind me, the bus driver tosses out an _oi, sunshine―stop taking the piss!_ , and I wave him off impatiently. “Yes, fine, I'm coming. Why the sudden desire to make good time? We've aged a decade, waiting for you.” (I'm not convinced he can hear me, but I feel better for saying it.)

“That's alright,” Simon says, pointing up at the sky. I look. “Rain's slowing.”

It isn't. If anything, it's getting worse.

“You'll catch a cold,” I start. And then, “You'll get wet. Wait _―_ ”

But Simon's already started along the road, hands in pockets, curls flattening further in the downpour. The bus driver has the nerve to hold a hand against the horn, and I'm stepping up as squeaking doors slide closed, trying to find half a thought for what's unfurling inside.

_If it rains, you get wet._

_If it weren't raining, I'd walk with you._

_If the bus hadn't arrived, what would have happened?_

The bus gathers speed, groaning all the while. I see a scattering of sour-looking passengers staring at their feet, as late and lost as I am.

I should sit down, but if I do, it feels like something might be over. It feels like something might reach an end before it can begin.

I grip the hand rail and watch as we sail past Simon, windscreen wipers fighting a hopeless fight as the evening turns from dour to dim.

**SIMON**

I don't look up. I'm not sure what I'd see _―_ Baz looking out, leaving me behind? Or maybe he's already claimed a couple of seats, fancy shoes pressed up against the ones in front.

The rain's worse than ever. It's going to be brilliant when it's over _―_ the world will feel light and fresh. We've just got to get there, so we can start again.

There's a nasty groan from the double-decker as it lumbers past, a grind and flash of lights. (Brake lights.) I focus on that, rain blurring with red as it slows, thinking about what it'll be like tomorrow morning, when we both show up at work.

_Will it be different?_

_Will you_ _hide from me?_

I don't want it to mean nothing. Maybe nothing _has_ changed for Baz _―_ I'll piss him off with my opinions, and he'll hide all the car films from me.

(I'm pretty sure he was trying to quote _Bend It Like Beckham_ just now. Which means he's watched it. Which means...)

It's a moment before I realise the bus is stopping, and another until I make out the shape of the person stepping down, one stop and a side street away.

He's not dressed for the weather. His coat's too thin. If he doesn't get under cover sharpish, he'll be a drowned rat.

I race myself and almost trip over my shoelaces. (I should tie them before I break my neck.)

It's him.

It's Baz.

He got off the bus.

 _If_ ―

“Baz?”

 _If I_ ―

“Simon.”

 _If I ask_ ―

“The bus.”

_If I ask you―_

“Let's walk. I'd rather walk.”

“But it's pouring down.”

His hair's flat against his face, rain dripping off his eyelashes. He spins, splashing me, and points at a boxy structure ahead, barely visible in the creeping dark.

“Bus shelter?”

“The next one along. We won't have got far, but...shall we?”

I nod and take my hands out of my pockets. His satchel's hanging off one shoulder and his coat's sliding down one arm. I tug it back into place and try not to think about how he must’ve looked, racing off the bus.

I'm going to thank him properly for the notes, but not yet. (I don't want there to be any ifs left to trip us up.)

I'm going to see him outside of work, in the rain or out of it.

I wouldn't change anything. The weather, bad grammar, Marmite _―_ no matter what Baz says. I wouldn't change it.

“Almost there,” he says, gesturing along the road. “The storm's overhead _―_ we've a while to go yet. You know what they say, Snow _―_ if it rains, it pours.”

 _Always,_ I think. _Always true._

When we get to the shelter, there's no one inside. The bench is wider in this one _―_ there's room for us to spread out as Baz pulls squashed cucumber sandwiches and a bruised apple from his bag. He doesn't get out his textbook, but that's alright _―_ it feels like conditions have been met. Like there's nothing left to question.

Thunder cracks overhead and he flinches again, dropping the apple. Before another bus can interrupt us, I'm crushing the sandwiches to get at him.

I slide my hands over his cheeks and catch his lips in a kiss _―_ his mouth is wet with rain, soft and shaking as I almost knock him off the bench, plastic groaning beneath us.

_If I kiss you, you can't leave._

It feels right, like the answer to a riddle _―_ notes left in my locker, rain clouds and missing buses. I kiss him until he warms, and our breath turns hot between us. I've got one hand clutching his coat, and he’s got his fingers behind my neck, rubbing the spot that I'm forever hassling.

I don't think I could get enough of this. I want to kiss him against my locker tomorrow, when he thinks he's being sneaky. I'd take him home and fail to watch five seconds of a film with him on the sofa. I’d _―_

“Are you sure?” he murmurs when we break apart, rain impatient on the roof of the shelter. This one's in bad shape _―_ there's a leak behind the bench, and we're both splattered with wet. “If you don't want this, I'll understand.”

_No. No more conditionals._

I lean in again and kiss him lightly, to shut him up. I’d throw out a clever film quote, but I can’t remember anything. Anything outside of this shelter.

“Cheers for the notes, Baz.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“And thank you, Dar _―”_

_“Do not speak his name.”_

We tear into the sandwiches (they could do with a bit of Marmite, but I'm not about to start that up now) and watch two buses pass, windows lined with pained faces.

“Are you going to get on at me about alphabetical order tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. Do we need to do a review? I know an _excellent_ word game.”

It's another hour before the rain lessens, though we're not paying the weather a blind bit of notice. When it finally stops, we start walking.

By the time the sky's full-dark, the downpour's drying on the pavement, and we don't run out of words or road.


End file.
